by Ron Shirley
Since we never did have money to buy pets, we caught or dug up everything we ever raised. One Easter, Sandy wanted a pet rabbit more than anything in the world. And even though Sandy is usually diagonally parked in a parallel universe, me and Jason wanted to make her Easter wish come true. So we spent every afternoon for a week after school building homemade rabbit boxes. We were busier than a stump full of smoked ants. We figured we’d put them out Friday night, then take Sandy with us Easter Sunday morning to check them, in the hopes we’d catch one and she’d be happier than a horsefly trapped in an outhouse.
Well, as Pops was prone to do, he found a way to throw a wrench into our plans. We didn’t know it at the time, but Pops had caught an old, wild tomcat in the barn earlier in the week. Now, he knew me and Jason and Sandy would be checking those traps Sunday morning, so he went out Saturday night and loaded one up with that ol’ tomcat. I guess he figured we’d open it up right there on the spot and that crazy cat would be on us faster than a crackhead on his pipe. He knew that ol’ cat would be wilder than a two-mouth bass at an earthworm family reunion.
Now, our momma always told us the early bird gets the worm, but the persistent bird finds the feeder. So after a whole week of building traps, we knew Easter morning we’d get Sandy her rabbit. Me and Jason and Sandy got up before church and went to see if God had answered our prayers. Now, I’ve learned that God is sometimes slicker than hot snot on a goat’s glass eyeball, and though we don’t understand why, He always gives us what we need—even if it’s not exactly what we want.
So there we were, heading to the rabbit boxes with about as much gracefulness as three blind Rottweilers at a china factory. All of a sudden, Sandy started screaming like her hair was on fire and her tail was catching. She’d noticed that the door on one of the boxes was down, which meant we had caught ourselves Peter Cottontail. Luggin’ the box between us, we high-tailed it back to the shed behind the house faster than a jackrabbit on moonshine. We got inside, locked the door, and went over to the makeshift cage we had built for Sandy’s little Easter bunny. Then we pulled the door of the rabbit box open so he could hop on in.
When that ol’ tomcat shot out of that box, we were more surprised than a blind dog under a treed raccoon! That ol’ cat went to hissing and showing his teeth, his hair standing up on his back like he’d just been blow-dried by a Hoover. Thinking the cat was rabid, I told Jason to sit tight while I ran to get my gun to smoke that ol’ cat like wet pine straw at a trash burning.
It was about then that Sandy went to screaming and crying and begging us not to put that ol’ stray out of his misery. She looked sadder than a sow that had just lost her slop trough, so me and Jason agreed we wouldn’t hurt him. She even talked us into helping her try to tame that yellow fur ball, because she said everybody gets Easter bunnies but she was the only girl around with an Easter cat-bunny!
We devised a plan to keep him in the shed and sneak him table scraps every chance we got. Now, we should’ve caught on pretty quick when Pops kept asking us what we caught. We told him “Nothing,” but he wouldn’t let it go.
I guess at that age the intellect is rivaled only by garden tools, and Pops kept saying, “Did you check the trap by the big rock? I know there are rabbits around there.”
Finally, after the entire ride to church and we hadn’t let on we had us a cat-bunny, Pops said, “What did y’all do with that cat I slipped in that trap?”
Now, right then you could bar the doors and tie down the stools, ’cause Pops went and told on himself! Momma was madder than a cowboy at a fashion show. She started in on him for putting the cat in there; me and Jason was mad he had planned on letting that ol’ pole cat tear into us like a great white shark at a sushi bar; and Sandy was bawling because she knew Pops didn’t like cats and he was gonna make her let it go.
So after ten minutes of riding the old man like a borrowed Corvette, to make everyone happy, Pops said we could keep the cat. We decided to name him Wildman and set out to make him not only tame, but part of the family. Of course, if he was gonna be part of the Shirley clan, he’d better get used to Pops aggravating him.
After a few weeks, we had somewhat domesticated that ol’ feline, and we were outside playing when Pops came to the front yard and asked us if we knew what a sandwich was. We just looked at him like he was a few fries short of a Happy Meal. He smiled and said, “Well, I just invented a cat-wich!” Sandy’s eyes bugged out like a toady frog in a hailstorm. Then she looked around Pops and saw Wildman buried from the neck down in the sandbox.
A few days after that, we came home and couldn’t find Wildman anywhere, so Sandy asked Pops where he was.
“He’s probably just hangin’ out,” he told her. We knew we’d better find him quick, and sure enough, we found Wildman hanging on the clothesline dripping wet, his back feet tied together. Sandy was mad enough to stump whip chitlins. See, Pops had made up his mind that he was gonna get this cat to leave or aggravate us enough to give it away, but Sandy is more stubborn than a harnessed Sunday pack mule—and that cat wasn’t backin’ down none either.
A few Saturdays later, we were having some friends over and Pops walked by us outside and said, “Y’all wanna see a magic trick?”
Of course, we were more excited than a hockey player with his first fake tooth, so we all chimed in, “Yes!”
Well, just outside our house is a huge old cedar tree, about twenty feet tall. Pops reached down, grabbed that cat, and slung him like a Babe Ruth pop fly right up to the top of that tree. “Look,” he said, “I made a cat disappear!”
I don’t know if that cat just liked the tree, or if he took that toss personally, but he set up a permanent residence right there in those thick branches, and from then on that’s where you’d find him. I guess he’d also been taking all those weeks of aggravation to heart, ’cause from then on anyone could walk by that tree but Pops. If Pops came by that cedar tree, ol’ Wildman would pounce out quicker than a three-armed tobacco picker on a hot day looking for a glass of ice water. He’d claw that man’s legs all to pieces and then run right back up into that tree.
In fact, this started becoming a daily occurrence. It was like that cat would just sit and wait. And since the tree was right outside the front door, we used to sit on the porch and wait for Pops to get home, just to see which one of them would be slicker than snot over smashed bananas and win the battle of wills that day.
Finally, Pops got smart and started keeping a garden rake at the door. When he’d go to his truck, he’d run that cat back under the tree with the rake, and then he’d toss it in the back of the truck for when he came home. Well, that ol’ cat was a quick learner. It didn’t take him too many times being in the Kool-Aid to guess the flavor. Pops, being Pops, also never could leave well enough alone. So one evening, he came home, and we were sitting on the porch. Pops went to walk by that tree and out jumped ol’ Wildman. Pops ran him back under the tree with that rake, but then he started beating all the lower branches, screaming at the cat and trying to flag him out. We knew right then that was gonna go over like a pregnant pole-vaulter. Sandy started screaming at Pops, Momma ran out to see what Sandy was screaming about, Pops was yelling at the cat—and me and Jason were just dying with laughter.
It was at that point that I saw my first cat-bird. As Pops kept beating that tree, me and Jason saw Wildman leap out from the top. He had climbed all the way up and launched himself, but he wasn’t heading to the open ground. He had a spot already marked: he landed right on top of Pops’s head and latched on to it like a big-nosed mosquito at a blood bank.
Pops threw his rake down and went to running around, scared as a sinner in a cyclone. Wildman was hissing and biting, and Pops was beating himself half to death trying to get that cat to turn loose! There was a small bucket filled with rainwater that we always left out for the animals to drink—Pops grabbed hold of that bucket and doused his own head! Wildman jumped to the ground … but he wasn’t done. He started in on Pops’s leg like a duck
on a June bug, and Pops, having been disarmed and now rake-less, broke into a run down the driveway screaming for Momma to help. Ol’ Wildman was in hot pursuit, chasing Pops and hissing. I swear I ain’t never seen my dad run so fast! He was moving faster than ice cream at a Jenny Craig convention, and all you could see were feet and yellow fur as Pops was screaming, “Judy, get this damn cat! Judy, help! Judy … Judy, help me!”
All three of us looked at Momma to see what she was gonna do. She just smiled and said, “That oughtta teach him that lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than putting him back in.” And with that, she went back inside.
I never did ask Pops how far he ran that day, but he and that cat had a come-to-Jesus meeting. From then on, Wildman stayed on the porch and Pops never messed with him again.
[Women & Marriage]
1. There’s two theories about arguing with a woman … and neither one of ’em works.
2. I can’t complain. I’m married and my wife don’t listen no more.
3. There’s two people in a marriage: one’s always right and the other’s always the husband.
4. The only thing that separates her from white trash is her rich husband.
5. I knew I married Miss Right. I just didn’t know her first name was “Always.”
[Surprise]
1. Butter my butt and call me a biscuit!
2. Well, dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians!
3. Now, don’t that just dill your pickle!
4. I’ll be hog-tied and pigeon-toed.
5. Her jaw dropped so far you could put forty dollars’ worth of ten-cent gumballs in there.
[Unlikely]
1. You’d have a better chance of finding a diamond in a billy goat’s butt.
2. You’d have a better chance of finding a feather on a frog.
3. I’d have a better chance of freezing moonshine.
3
Tell Me What You Need …
And I’ll Tell You How to Get Along Without It
There are a few things in life that you never forget; things that stick with you like stink on a billy goat. Most folks never forget their first car, their first kiss, or their first fight, and everyone remembers their first puppy.
When we grew up, me and Jason were so poor we had to ride double on our stick horse, so there was no way Pops was ever gonna spend money on a dog. He always told us we’d go out and get us a sooner—which, to him, meant the dog would sooner be this than that; but we always wanted a dog with a pedigree (even though, at the time, we just thought that meant he ate fancy dog food and had the right to wear a collar). Me and Jason figured the only way we were ever gonna get a real dog was to buckle down and start earning our own money to buy one, since we knew we’d rather be chewing on buttholes than to ask Pops for any money to spend on a dog.
At the time, the big sensation was pit bulls. Every kid around had one and they would tie an ol’ lead rope on the dog’s neck and prance them jewels up and down the roads, high-stepping like a rooster in wool socks. So we decided we was gonna get us one of them pit bulls—even though everybody told us they were the meanest dogs on the planet and we would rather go skinny-dipping in a fifty-five-gallon barrel of calf slobber than to own one. So we did what all kids who loved their dad and respected his opinion would do: We went straight to Momma for permission.
Now, Momma always told us to ride hard, shoot straight, and tell the truth. And we didn’t mind doing that … as long as Pops didn’t find out. So we told her we wanted to work all summer in the tobacco fields and do odd jobs on the weekends to get us enough money to buy a pit bull. Momma thought this idea made as much sense as putting a screen door on a submarine. She didn’t understand why we wanted a dog with such a vicious reputation; she was dead-set against it. Me and Jason knew convincing her would be harder than pulling fly poop from a pepper shaker, but we also knew with a few “pleases” and a lot of tears we could convince her. Then she’d convince Pops.
After two weeks or so of constant badgering, she finally gave in and told us if we could raise the money by the end of summer she’d talk to Pops. Of course, she knew as well as we did, if you’re gonna drive cattle through town, do it on a Sunday when there’s less traffic and fewer people to fight. She decided she wasn’t gonna tell Pops unless we raised all the money first. We had no quarrels about that. So me and Jason started working right away and continued working all summer long.
We learned two things that summer: First, those farmers will work a young kid harder than a ten-year-old government mule; and second, two can live as cheaply as one—if one of ’em doesn’t eat. So we kept every dime we made that summer. We didn’t go to any movies; we didn’t buy any baseball cards; we didn’t even go to the store for our weekly Pepsi and Moon Pie. We put every single cent we made aside.
At the end of the summer we took all our money out and counted it. Then we looked through the ads in the Sunday paper with Momma to see if we had enough. I’ll tell you one thing: people sure are proud of their dogs. Reading those ads in the Sunday paper made us think some of these dog owners were more proud of their pit bulls than a camel jockey with a three-humped camel. We scanned every ad, and with each one, we got to feeling lower than a snake’s belly in a wheel rut. Then, in the last ad, we saw that someone was selling registered pit bulls and the price was exactly the amount we had saved up! Jason and I were both as happy as a short-legged, fat pony in a high field of oats.
We reminded Momma that she had to hold up her end of the bargain and get Pops on board with the plan. ’Course, we knew this was gonna be harder than three-day-old snot on an oven door … but we also knew Pops would rather be pecked to death by a beakless rooster than to cross Momma. So we went ahead and started thinking of names for our new pit-bull puppy. Well, by the time Momma was done with Pops, he looked like he’d been eaten by bears and crapped over a cliff. We were grinning from ear-to-ear when we heard him make that phone call and set us up an appointment to look at the puppies.
The trip took about an hour, and the whole way there Pops just kept telling us we’d rather grab a wildcat by the tail with our teeth than to own one of these dogs—that they weren’t nothing but trouble. But his words were falling on deaf ears and he knew it. Finally, we arrived at the end of this long dirt driveway and turned off the main road. Now, I’ve always been taught to know how well country people are doing by looking at their barns, not their houses. As we drove down this driveway, every barn I saw had fallen in and there was more trash blowing around than at an abandoned trailer park after a tornado. But I might as well have been pulling up to the White House, ’cause we were getting a pit bull.
When we got to the end of the road there was this old, single-wide trailer. One end of it was jacked up about six feet in the air, and most of the underpinning was missing. This old man came out of the door wearing nothing but a pair of faded overalls, and he was holding his teeth in his hand. Right behind him was what I reckon to be his wife. She was a very healthy woman; in fact, I think that was the VCR she had on her hip for a beeper!
The old man put his teeth in, then stuck out the same hand for me to shake. “Hey, I’m Roland—and these here are Roland’s bulls.” He pointed to a pen that looked like it was put together with tin cans and electric wire.
Now, it wasn’t bad enough I had to shake this guy’s hand (’cause, with Pops standing there, I’d rather go skinny-dipping in a pool full of porcupines than to disrespect someone); but then, when I looked in that pen, there were six of the mangiest mutts I’d ever seen. Every one of them puppies looked like they suffered from zackly disease: Their heads looked zackly like their butts.
To top it off, the old guy’s wife was on him like a green worm on a tomato plant from the second those two came out of that trailer. It was quickly obvious, however, that he was a master at selective hearing, and he just went on like she wasn’t even there. She kept saying, “Roland, if one of those mutts gets out after my cats again, I’m gonna shoot ’em
.”
The old man just ignored her and went on telling us about the dogs.
Well, Pops was looking at me, and I was looking at Jason, and both of us had eyes on the door of Pops’s old truck, itchin’ to get outta there. But Pops is more stubborn than a harnessed mule and he was dead-set on making us ride this one out.
Ol’ Roland stepped inside that pen and you’d have thought someone had thrown a big ol’ steak bone in there. The two biggest pups went after each other like two June bugs on an electric nightlight. They were tearing each other apart! They rolled into the doghouse and sounded like two tin skeletons in a Texas tornado. Roland dove into that doghouse headfirst after them and, faster than you can skin a flathead catfish, one of the dogs came flying out and landed across the pen. Roland crawled out of the doghouse, smiled, and said, “Dogs will be dogs.” That’s when we all noticed that he didn’t have any bottom teeth. Then the other pup came out of the doghouse—with Roland’s teeth sticking out of his mouth, grinning like a steamed raccoon!
Suddenly, Roland realized his teeth were running across the pen—and so did the other pup. Before you could blink, the three of them were chomping around after each other like they were playing Pac-Man. Roland grabbed one dog by the neck and snatched him up faster than a whore’s drawers on Sunday morning. He yanked his lower set of teeth from the dog’s jaw and chucked him outside the fence. That ol’ pup must’ve known he was in trouble ’cause he went and crawled up under Pops’s truck.
None of us three had yet to say a word. Roland yelled to his wife to grab the puppy so we could look at it, and she started trying to crawl under the truck. It wasn’t bad enough that she was so big the only thing we could see was her bohaunkus, which looked like two Buicks fighting for a parking place while she was trying to get under that truck, but she was also so ugly she had to sneak up on a glass of water to drink it. I don’t know if that puppy was as scared of the view as I was, but I was ready to leave. Unfortunately, we weren’t going anywhere until that pup was out from under Pops’s truck.